Lady Lazarus
by Alcopops
Summary: In August 2005 Hermione Granger dies, in March 1965 Hermione Potter awakens with the world of knowledge at her fingertips.
1. Chapter 1

Euphemia Potter was not a nice woman.

{ you have to wait a few more hours. her condition is not stabilized.}

Euphemia liked to think that she had been a good woman, forty years ago when she had been Euphemia Rowle. She was sorted into Rawenclaw, scored good enough marks and dodgy finances aside was on her way to being a 'career woman'. Sure even her mother had turned her nose at that statement, like a job was beneath her when she was casting duplicating charms in the pantry because food was scarce and they had three daughters. But Euphemia had been smart enough to see reality, to see that she needed a job if she had to survive, or better yet carted off to marry some cross-eyed pureblood wizard who couldn't string a coherent sentence.

So she took up a job in the Department of Welfare of Magical Children, with moderate wages and the promise of caring for children. She worked for three good years, her sisters had new robes and mother no longer had to skimp on the good wine for the guests and she could smile.

Then she met Fleamont.

{"James quiet down" Fleamont said to his son, looking anxiously towards his wife. It had been nearly two days and his wife refused to leave her vigil. He was scared how she would take to loosing yet another child}

Fleamont Potter with messy black hair, who secretly brought flowers into her office and swept her off her feet, a decade older still giggled hiding behind the file cabinet as he tripped her grouchy supervisor for looking at her all wrong.

Fleamont who carried his toddler brothers picture in his wallet and used him as an excuse to sneak into her department and stealthily slip in good chocolates. Euphemia never had the heart to tell him that she didn't enjoy sweets.

So after one brief year of courtship she had become and moved in to Potter mansion. And she had loved the house with its long imposing hallways and ancestral wards. And drafty rooms that imposing chandeliers and ballrooms shut, from victorian times.

And for the next two decades met her in laws, hosted parties and took care of Charles like her own son. Sat through his indoor Quidditch games and pranks and mysterious smells from his wing of the house.

She was a good woman even then, when she watched her family grow up, even when the purebloods stood in her house and made snide comments on the fact that the nursery was closed for the last twenty years.

She watched Charles Potter marry Dorea Black, her almost son walk into the arms of a woman whose smiles just didn't reach her grey eyes. Voiletta Black had sipped on elf-made wine at their reception and smiled at Euphemia "no children yet?"

She felt the cracks crawl up, for every dinner that Charles had missed, for every snide remark Voiletta made. And she felt all the goodness in her heart dry up the day she had to clean up her blood stained tiles and dry her tears and floo to Charles and Dorea's mansion and hold their baby.

And for thirteen odd years she held her sorrow in, Euphemia Potter faded from the once cheerful young girl that Fleamont had fallen in love with. She held her cracks and heart tinged with bitterness as she watched Charles Jr run around his parents. Something much have showed for Dorea stopped inviting her to dinner parties anymore.

And on the thirteenth year when she waved her wand in the privacy of her bathroom, her stomach glowed blue again, for the third time.

She dared not hope again, so she went to 's alone and watched her every meal and every sip. She let Fleamont hold her in nights that she woke up scared and terrified and looked over her pristine white sheets for red spots.

She prayed and prayed, to the Gods unknown and nine months later she had her own bald pink squalling infant. And her heart had soared.

Her son, James Fleamont Potter was born on a sunny day,mid afternoon barely half an hour into her labour. Like he had been thrilled about everything, infinite energy that wore out even Fleamont, all she could do was smile.

And even though just scant six months later she was invited back to Charles and Dorea's house for their daughters christening, her heart did not feel the same way.

{"She's awake , you can go in now"}

She was a beautiful, beautiful child, with a head full of messy Potter hair and kind brown eyes. James who was in her arms peered down at the baby and gave a gummy smile and Euphemia's weary heart hurt.

Charles Jr was thirteen and uninterested, Dorea's brother Pollux was staring at the baby deep in thought "Would make a fine wife for one of Walburga's sons" and all Euphemia wanted was to snatch the baby away from prying eyes.

But she had picked James up and walked away, for she knew that James wouldn't grown up with his cousin and she knew that she would never be able to give her husband a daughter.

And little James had cried and cried and cried, great big hiccuping cries and said "mine" over and over again.

And now five years later here she was. A right tragedy others would say, someone had set a fiendfyre near the woods and the uncontrolled fire burned the mansion down. The sleeping family had no chance of escape, all except their youngest daughter. She had been brought to 's just the day before because of a sudden magic fluctuations.

Euphemia Potter stepped into the pristine white ward, there lay the child still fast asleep. She didn't know yet that there was no one left, her hair lay tangled, her arms still heavily bandaged. And Euphemia held the tiny sleeping girls hands.

and deep inside Euphemia's heart, a selfish beast whispered to her that she finally had her perfect little family and two children.

James Fleamont Potter and Hermione Dorea Potter


	2. Chapter 2

i.

 _Dying_

 _Is an art, like everything else._

 _I do it exceptionally well._

Hermione woke up in a white room. She felt sudden jolts, incessant in regular intervals, like her bed was shaking.

She groaned.

"Oh you are awake"

There was a little boy at the foot of her bed, his leg halfway forward like he was kicking it.

"didn't mean to wake you up"

He is a tiny thing, big hazel eyes looking at her curiously.

"I am James" he said and reached forward, hands out. Hermione took his hand.

* * *

For three days she lay in her bed unmoving. Every breath she took resonated in the silence, like bird cages rattling. She watched as healers bustled around, as they packed her bags and hustled her out. The older man, with graying hair and crow's feet had carried her out.

"I can walk" she wanted to say, except she didn't say anything. Just clung on to him like a limpet.

"Do you like your new room?" The woman was wringing her hand, a nervous gesture.

She nodded.

Her head was throbbing, like her tiny brain couldn't keep up with her thoughts, while her chest felt too large and empty.

On the third day the lady came to get her, she was dressed in long back robes, the material looked coarse. She combed out the tangles in her hair, so slow and careful and picked out a dress for her to wear. Something long and black.

The funeral itself was a quiet affair, there were a lot of people who cast her sympathetic looks. Or one woman who tried to hug her, so tight that she felt she was choking.

There were conversations too, "she could live with me" the woman said, her black hair in ringlets, there was no hint of tears in her eyes.

"That would be highly improper" the man said, his brows furrowed, his mouth set in a severe line.

"She could live with Cassiopeia"

"Cassiopeia forgets to take food three times a day and she is unmarried"

"She is staying with me" there is a finality in the man's voice, his hazel eyes look hard.

"You want her to marry..."

"Do not presume to know me Walburga" he said " I knew you when you were a child and I know what you intend" There was a thick silence that followed, Walburga's eyes wide in anger, her knuckles stark white "she is just a child and I intend to raise her as such"

"Like a blood traitor then"

"one day there will be no one left pure enough and all those pure will be dead"

"I have two sons" She said standing up straight backed.

When they left Fleamont carried both his tired children in his arms, others tittered on whether the Potters would make an acceptable guardian, must Hermione noted that he hadn't even remembered to cast a lightening charm.

* * *

Hermione thought that being a baby was a lot like being drunk. There were flashes of memory only from her later years. Hazy, poor eyesight, memory loss and an inability to walk.

Of these things she knew in certainty.

It was at age 3 that self awareness flooded her senses like a tsunami and for a few hours she drowned.

But as quickly as it came it receded, leaving her confused and later in loud tears that brought Mipsy the house-elf and later Dorea herself, in futile attempts to calm her daughter.

It became a mostly quiet voice in her head, often making innocuous observations till it became a part of her consciousness. Like how Dorea and Charles kept their wands exceedingly close and the sealed off East wing every time Charles Jr. tutor came in, when she stood close to the locked doors she could hear muffled thumps and brights lights flashing from underneath the door. 'There is a war outside' the voice told her.

Dorea would note that her infant daughter had become quieter, her intelligence would remain unknown till much later into her life when most of her plans were set in motion, but by then Dorea would be long dead.

Hermione watched her mother most of the time. Dorea Black nee Potter was a beautiful woman, she had sharp grey eyes and a beautiful mouth. She might have been an intelligent woman as well, in her quieter moments when she thought Hermione was engaged with her picture books she would open up her own books and read. She would see runes, household charms sometimes even ones with men and women in their covers, looking ardently into each others eyes. Hermione thought they were picture books like her.

She slowly learned her mother's friends as well, Celestina with her unfortunate eyebrows, Justine whose laughs dissolved into snorts, Emma who always brought her candy. She learned family as well, Cassiopeia whose had wrinkles and a perpetual frown of disapproval, Callidora whose smiles seemed sharp toothed, or Walburga whose beautiful face was marred by her sneers and high pitched voice. She disliked Walburga the most.

Her mother was a soft woman in the comfort of her house, they ate meals together. She talked to Charles (II) about his school, to her husband about his work. She smiled easily at his jokes and held Hermione more often than not. The house smelled like her, indecipherable and complex yet with sweet under tones. And like all daughters she thought, deep in her mind, she wanted to be like Dorea.

Being an orphan coincided with her surge of memories as well. For a few days she had been so distraught that jumping into the rabbit hole had seemed easier. There weren't a lot, it was of a girl just like her with bushy brown hair and hands filled with books. "Papa this one" she said pulling out a book with a rabbit on the cover, it was strange because the rabbit did not move. Her father, with glasses and dark hair began reading a story. She knew her parents were dentists, healers who worked on teeth, were muggle, and were unaware of magic. There were only a few, of older relative and Christmas with presents wrapped in red gold and green. And nights she spend with her mother and father, in that life, the brown haired version of her was loved.

And she had felt alone alone alone.

* * *

James didn't like taking no for an answer, later in his life his stubborn bullheadedness would make him powerful enemies, but now it had saved Hermione. For almost a week he loitered past her door, the purple room had been his second favorite room, and he wanted to see his cousin.

"She's your sister now James" Euphemia had said "you have to take care of her now"

James liked the thought that he had a little sister now, like Theodore and Graham. But she was not pink and smelly like the other babies, she was as tall as him and could speak (though he really hadn't heard her speak, but he hoped) . So after waiting ages and ages he stormed into her rooms, threw open the doors and jumped on her bed "come play with me"

James's fingers against her wrist, grip surprisingly tight pulls her away from the safety of her room.

The Candid court in Appleby, North Lincolnshire was a fairly large home, perhaps not comparable to the Malfoy Manor as it was not that old. But Henry Potter, Fleamont's father had wanted a fairly large and impressive house mostly for a show of power than use. He had been a successful barrister and later a member of the Wizengamot, was later disappointed that neither of his sons had thought to follow his footsteps. Fleamont was more of a businessman who ran a few successful (and unsuccessful) forays and Charles who was a darling son went on to be an Auror. By the time James was born Fleamont was wealthy and retired and intended to spend his free time taking care of his rambunctious son and later daughter.

While the house itself was comfortable and fairly large, what stood out was the wilderness surrounding the house. And the small area of property attached was heavily warded against any dangerous creatures as well. Hermione was awestruck at the tiny cosy tree house James had dragged her into, prying off a loose floorboard to show his secret stash, of sugar quills, melted misshapen Honeydukes chocolate bars, fudge flies and crystallized cherries that glinted like red rubies against sunlight. So Hermione crawled out to the edge of their treehouse with one Pumpkin Fizz and a box of fudge flies and ate in silence.

James was a happy child so mostly he insisted that Hermione was too, the brown haired girl in her dreams read, she went to a muggle school and sat alone. But she had her books, of dragons and princesses and brave knights, Hermione had James and the treehouse and hidden acoves and times they spend on their toy brooms. At six they got their Governess, Mary Carter was only nineteen and well equipped to deal with running children. The Potters were not a traditional family, the governess was only there to teach them to read and write and some basic maths. While James whinged and hid, Hermione was curious. The other girl (in her head) had already learned, so she did too.

"She's a natural" Mary would say while Hermione raided her house for 'little women' there was none.

* * *

By seven Euphemia was 'Mom' Fleamont 'dad' and James was 'Jamie' sometimes 'JimJam' and mostly 'idiot' but only when their mom was not around. The girl in her head also grew and went to school and made no friends. Hermione found Grant annoying and James a bigger prat when they joined them, Claudia thought them too young, and Jane too young. So she found herself agreeing with the other girl that books were infinitely better.

It was also at seven that all her straight white milk teeth fell out and first ones that came back was disproportionately huge. She was appalled when it wouldn't stop growing and stared more often at the mirror in dismay, James's own teeth came back perfect aligned and symmetrical.

He had taken to calling her rabbit and made snorting noises every time she passed. Hermione resorted to itching powder in his sheets and then James filled her shoes with water. The intensity of their pranks increased and was put to end abruptly when Euphemia's hair turned blue for a week, she was not amused.

It was when Hermione was sulking in her room staring at her vanity that she observed her features disdainfully, she looked at her too big teeth and her hair in cowlicks and elaborate curls that she realized that she looked like her! The other girl in her head, outside of their hair color there was nothing that really set them apart.

"I have nicer hair" she tried to convince herself.

So while the noise in Hermione's head grew louder and her teeth bigger, James grew as well. James learned climbing trees and riding his Cleansweep-1, and how to widen his eyes when his mom got angry. While she sought refuge in books and fantasies and later in magic. When Hermione granger got her letter at twelve, Hermione potter realized what they had in common beyond their faces and first names- magic. Magic that lay dormant under her skin, "Concentrate" the voice promised "and you can make things happen", 'Wingardium Leviosa' could make things float and when she asked the leaves to float, slow and steady, with the will of her mind and the stretch of her fingers they obeyed.

[When Hermione Granger at eighteen had visited Snape's memories, she saw them (the red headed girl and the skniny boy) make the leaves float up. By then her magic had grown too stabilized to channel it without a wand. She thought it was another one of the little secrets that pureblood families kept to themselves, but never thought that Snape had discovered that by himself. Wandless magic was after all rare and prized in adults, when accidental magic natural, a part of young children's unstable magic settling into their cores.]

While others would see her as a precocious and solitary girl, she sought James out to share her secrets. Not all of them yet, but the ones with magic at her finger tips. With all his restless energy he was still fascinated.

"It will be our secret" she told him and with an expert flick of her wrist made the twig float.

Impatient James seemed to absorb this faster and could float bigger things, a fact that send her to a sulk. But she could make flowers bloom, some of them the size of her palms, she made the vines greener, their leaves bigger and hid behind them. For the fist time in centuries, unicorns would cross over to their warded forest, the curious young foals bold enough to let Hermione and James touch them.

Euphemia and Fleamont alarmed by the wards singing walked into the forest,only to watch their children amongst the unnaturally lush green forests and unicorns.

"They will be very powerful one day"

Euphemia could only nod, too choked up to speak.


	3. Chapter 3

Annabeth Williams had always wanted to be a primary school teacher, she enjoyed children and had absolutely adored Mrs. Smith her primary school teacher. She enjoyed the thought that she could sit and dictate when children took naps; at 8 that had seemed like the most important job then at 11 she had gotten her letter.

Magical Britain sounded amazing, and Diagon Alley bore witness to that wonder. When Anna had stepped into wizarding Britain (through a wall at an old pub that no one could see) she saw golden flyers, objects whizzing , colorful signs that shouted their welcome when she walked past and the world had seemed wonderful. Magical Britain had been loud and bright with little children scurrying around in flowing outfits that didn't dirty at hems while she stood drab and grey and the sound of bombs reverberating in her skull.

That was seventeen years ago.

There were no wizarding primary schools she later learned but by then she wanted to be a healer, then an auror, then a professional quidditch player even though she didn't have the skills. She wanted to fly up high and hear the thundering crowds scream her name in adoration; she wanted their cheers to replace the sound of bombs that she dreamt of. As she learnt and grew, that magical Britain wasn't quite as magical for some. That everyone knew everyone and if you didn't have an easily identifiable last name you meant nothing. " , I've never heard of another Williams" some would say, their noses wrinkling up in thinly veiled disgust "muggleborn?"

Being a teacher in the muggle world had been a dream, being a governess to rich pureblood children was more of a livelihood.

Annabeth wasn't impressed by the Potter Manor, she had seen bigger and better houses. If anything that did, was Euphemia Potter's warm smile as she invited Annabeth in.

"Just one hellion" Euphemia later said, over tea "my daughter is an angel except somehow the combination brings out the worst in both"

As if almost in agreement a loud thump echoed through the house, Annabeth looked in surprise as Euphemia siped on unaware, another loud bang "maa" She could see that her work cut out when a boy of 6 barged in, his hair bright blue and smoking "look at what Hermione did to me" he wailed. There was a girl right behind him, her hair almost cracking with static holding what appeared to be a dripping book "I will do much worse James if you don't fix this"

Euphemia waved her wand in exasperation fixing them both "What have I told you about pranks James?" The boy was still grinning, looking at his reflection attempting to flatten his messy hair. The girl on the other hand was sniffing the book "It still smells weird" she complained.

"And no more unsupervised magic" she scolded the girl, Annabeth resisted the urge to point out that young children had no control over their accidental magic, but she resisted. Her career had taught her well enough that rich women seldom liked being corrected, the young girl looked chastised however "I know mother" she said "James is just the worst"

Annabeth settled into life with the Potters' easily enough. She probably didn't contemplate that she would end up living there for another five years, going from nanny to long-suffering governess and in later years a dear friend to the family.

For the longest time she believed that they were twins, their ages seemed similar enough and even though the children had different coloring, something about their mannerisms, the similar curve of their smiles.

Annabeth had a full time job with James, the child with messy hair who could never stay still. James was small for his age and managed to fit in the most unlikeliest of places. Once after setting off a chain of dungbombs managed to apparate into the attic crawl space only to scream when he has discovered spiders up there. James would have been a handful as a muggle child, with screams and his love for climbing on top of things. When Potter manor with it's chandeliers and huge banisters seemed built for a child like him, but unfortunately James Potter was a magical child. This meant unsupervised broom rides where he managed to pour syrup over everything, or the day that he turned their hairs blue. The endless supply of frogspawn in his pocket, nose biting teacups, screaming sheets and his shins forever bruised searched out new and annoying ways to interrupt his sister's reading.

Hermione Potter on the other hand was a quiet child, she stayed indoors and occasionally wandered outside with giant tomes that seemed impossible for a 7 year old to carry, as she grew older so did the volume of her books. She did not like Anna following her and the tracking spells slid off her cloths the second she stepped outside the house. But occasionally Anna would catch her, hauling giant books and climbing up trees with ease.

She had no talent of knitting and refused to sit still to paint. She looked bored and annoyed, reluctantly sat for her piano lessons when Fleamont commented on how much he loved his mother playing the piano. "Your grandmother was a proficient player" he said "she would have loved to teach you" So Hermione with long suffering sighs quite dramatically huffed and puffed her way through the piano lessons. Twice a week for an hour, she would press the keys and growl at her instructor while James managed to break the strings off his magical violin and grin. But she slowly progressed unlike James who drove his instructor away. She had no natural talent for it, it did not come easily to her as reading and understanding, it did not bend to her will like magic did. Frustratingly slow she learned to play simple pieces to her mother and father who stood in rapture and whispered "brilliant" to each other. By eleven she would sit dutifully, her fingers moving along the keys with ease, it would be years later that she found joy in her talents. For now there were tunes that cost a great deal of concentration to enjoy the music that she produced.

Annabeth had her hand in raising plenty of pureblood children, self-important lot who prided their children and guarded their family name like dragons and gold. There was the old families who swore on their blood and reluctantly led Annabeth into their houses. Their houses that twisted and turned with ornate carving and "painting from the seventeenth century" all maintained by magic and aging house elves, there was money and valuables and inbreeding, like the Crabbes that produced lumbering mean spirited sons. But there were Prewetts too, with their twins that managed more trouble than James, all smiles and sparkling blue eyes. Older houses and kinder people who welcomed Annabeth in just as easily, but blood was blood she saw. And all for the light and liberal side still had lines that could be traced back centuries, so perhaps they didn't agree with Grindelwald and his plans of killing muggles and muggleborns but didn't quite welcome their sons' bringing in wives whose names they couldn't recognize.

Like most pureblood children the Potters' grew in relative isolation, Fleamont a was too old to work usually puttered away in his lab with new and impractical inventions. Annabeth knew enough that the tiny colorful bottle of Sleekzy was 's invention, and that the new money meant that Fleamont and Euphemia were invited to a lot of ministry and private functions. Anna usually took the time to travel back to her own house and relax and leave Euphemia to try and coax James into dress robes and pry books away from Hermione's surprisingly strong fingers.

It never occurred to her that James who whined about the robes was more eager to go than quietly sulking Hermione.

"I will go with Annabeth instead" the eleven (almost twelve) year old loudly proclaimed, seemingly hiding behind her voluminous skirt.

"No Hermione that's not an option"

"But I don't want to" "They don't like me there"

It was strange to think of Hermione as a child, she always had her hair in a severe bun that always reminded Annabeth a little too much of Irma Crabbe. She was the sort of child that insisted on proper grammar and a little too much of spell theory that even her seven years of Hogwarts' education didn't prepare her with. But this was a girl, only 11, her hair curly and in disarray, her mouth too big for her face "You know they tease me mother, Lynette Rosier is a horrid girl" she stamped her leg at the name and moved further away from her mother "I would rather die than go to her party"

Annabeth resisted her urge to laugh. Hermione was strange one, unlike any child she ever saw. Her magic a little too controlled to be accidental without a wand, a strange kind that made tulips and lilies bloom all year around in their garden, the kind of magic that slid your eyes away from trees when she was hiding, her eyes that always seemed to hold secrets. But here she was, her big brown eyes filled with tears as she hid behind Annabeth "You can't make me go mother"

Finally Euphemia had to resort to the same freezing charm she used on James to force the dress robes on her.

"You need to know them better Hermione" "When you go to Hogwarts they will your friends"

Hermione didn't mask the horror that passed through her face.

Verse ii

Hermione was almost six months to her twelfth birthday when she got her Hogwarts letter. The same eggshell parchment with green ink and the red wax seal that every wizarding child had dreamed of getting. The owl had dropped off both the letters at the same time, a fact that Hermione secretly hated. But James set off firecrackers indoors threatening to burn her books that she had to chase him around the house instead of celebrating.

It was a happy day nonetheless, Euphemia made every dish that the siblings had ever mentioned liking. Much later, bellies aching she climbed the tree house with James, who sneaked in another plate of fudges.

"You are going to blow up like Gertude" Hermione commented climbing up the treehouse. James chose to smile with his teeth colored chocolate brown instead "you think we will be in the same house"

Hermione didn't want to think much about that.

"Well mother and father were" She paused, she had actually forgotten her mother had been Slytherin, her real mother. Dorea Black whose smiles stood vague in her memory, guilt clawed up her throat suddenly. She had forgotten that she was orphan, she had a family before.

She could feel James' hands around her "Hermione, its' ok, it's going to be okay" She could feel it her head, she buried her head against her brothers bony shoulders. His thin frame was an anchor "how could i forget them?"

"Because it was so long ago" it was matter of fact, she wanted to rage and scream. How many people had she already forgotten, the familiar grey of her mother's eyes, her father's smile, Charles when he came back from school and gave her sherbet candy that made her float. She wondered if they were real, if it was her mind conjuring comforting images. For now she held James, who sat still and uncomplaining and she breathed in remembering that he was real, she was real and alive and had a family.

Fleamont potter had wondered how to deal with this when the time came. She took both his children to get their wands. James had mahogony, 11inches, pheonix feather like his father "Pliable", Hermione on the other hand got 10 3/4, vine wood, Dragon heartstring "Stubborn" Olivander said "just like your fathers", and for a second with her wide eyes, Hermione reminded him of Charles so much that his heart ached.

for when Hermione came into Candid court she was not yet four, after a heavy bout of magical influenza the little girl came pale and thin, weary and an orphan. But she healed, like all little children, grew with James, like James. There were days they would run around the house, screaming and chasing each other, and other days in the dining room that their spoons would move in unison almost like they were mimicking each other.

Hermione and James were siblings, they fought, annoyed each other yet spend hours in their tree-house whispering and giggling with secrets that only they could share. And on days that he watched them laugh and grew, he did not have the same freedom of growing or moving on.

Fleamont was nineteen when Charles was born, all pink and squalling and so small that he was afraid he would drop the baby. And he was sixty when he had to bury his brother, along with his wife and underage son. Charles jr was only fifteen, he had only started to see the world. And on the days that his bones ached, he would see a flash of dark hair and think "Charles" and on days when James smiled a certain way, when he raced his broom, when he slid down the banister it was "Charles Charles Charles" and he would see Hermione "papa" she would say hoisting up a tome on spell theory "what does this word mean?"

"Papa" she would exclaim running up to him everytime he brought her a book she liked, her tiny fingers and soft hands. On days she would curl up on the couch snuggling near Euphemia "ma I am sleepy" that at first she would demand kisses for bruised shins and later wrinkle her nose "there is no magic in kisses" Lots of days he felt like a thief who had stolen away Charles' child and raised her as his own.

It felt strange the day he took the children down the vaults. He purchased customized pouches and told them all about money management even when James attempted to buy a golden cauldron soon after. But most importantly he took Hermione down to the other Potter vault, she stood there in silence "this was your parents"

Charles and Dorea never left a will, the probably didn't forsee that their four year old would be the only one left in the family. The nearsightedness was ultimately what gave her custody to Fleamont much easier. Walburga would have fought, perhaps even Cassiopeia not because they had a genuine interest in raising Hermione right. Only to prove their point, but no one had an interest in raising a Potter.

There was plenty gold in the vault of course, other than the inherited wealth Charles' earned enough as an auror and Dorea brought in her own family wealth. But Hermione's eyes were drawn to the chest, the family armorie, spellbooks and most importantly the pictures. There was one, magically preserved Charles and Dorea stood proud with their son and in Dorea's arms was Hermione, looking outside the frame and smiling as her mother shifted her. It seemed almost like a cruel mimicry, the stray strand of black hair that fell from her mother's bun. The crow's feet when her father smile, the second of irritation that passed through her brother's face, she felt like a voyeur, like an outside looking it. She quietly pocketed the photo, determined that if nothing else, she would preserve them in her memory. Her family deserved that.


End file.
